I very briefly dated a guy who was more enthusiastic for my job than I was. Every time we went out—always to a bar or club a.k.a. somewhere to be seen—he would proudly mention to all and sundry that I was a model. I felt like a really nice car, or a soaking tub, or a fireplace, or something that would drive the price of an apartment way up. “You have got to see the roof garden!” I was his roof garden.

Every time he DJ, he made sure I was dancing next to him in the booth. Club owners, promoters and photographers would always make sure I had a drink in my hand. They would take pictures of us together. Unfailingly, he would be grinning from ear to ear; I would be looking away, trying to focus my blurry drunk vision.

The relationship didn’t work out (quelle surprise)—I realized it wasn’t necessarily me he was so crazy about. I was replaceable. All he had to do was have a “casting” and any other model would easily step in.

Sex in the City briefly examined the idea of guys who are obsessed with dating models – “modelizers.” Yes, they exist. I’ve found in my experience with these men, it’s amazing what one can get away with. Alternatively, it’s also hurtful. A man I had been seeing introduced me as his friends with the following:

“Meet X. She’s a model!”

“A model huh?”

“Not your typical model. She thinks!” This was all said in front of me, as if I wasn’t there. I might think, but apparently this man was oblivious to the fact that I could also hear.

His behavior, I’m afraid to say, was pretty par for the course. At the beginning of my modeling career, I found it very daunting. I began to fear telling people what my job was -– I developed a nervous obsession about becoming a mere sexual fetish. I would always vaguely tell men I met that I worked in fashion and would then quickly change the subject.

This past summer I met this very sweet Norwegian girl who was working as a model in the Middle East. We met through a mutual friend at a party and instantly clicked. We hung out all summer and went to all of our castings together. She told me a horrifying story one afternoon as we sat in front of my air conditioning, trying to beat the hot summer heat.

“How many times have you been roofied?” she asked me, super casually.

“What do you mean? Like, drugged? Like, date rape?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Never… where the hell are you hanging out?”

“Are you serious?”

“Are you serious?”

“It happens to me all the time!” she insisted. “This owner at a club really liked me, he always invited me and my friends there. We got free drinks. Anyway he would always make sure he poured us our drinks. The bartender never did it because this guy had a table, and so he controlled the vodka.”

“Okaaay…”

“Anyway, the last time I was there I had come to the club and hadn’t had anything to drink before. So I drink half this drink and then I didn’t start to feel so good.” She lit a cigarette.

“What do you mean? Wouldn’t you just pass out?” Once I had decided I needed to know how susceptible I was to the date-rape drug of choice, GHB. So I roofied myself (alone in my apartment). I took a drop or two in a bottle of water. I was asleep within minutes. The next thing I remember is that I woke up five hours later from the time I consumed the drug, and didn’t remember when or how I fell asleep. Scary stuff.

“I didn’t. I felt really weird. Really high. Physically. I was scared. So I went to the bathroom and locked the door and started texting a friend to come and pick me up. I felt so hazy. But I was still awake and as alert as I could be. Before I know it, this guy is banging on the bathroom door asking me to come out and come sit with him. I yelled at him to go away. Then my friend came and took me home.” She shrugged. “Can’t believe it’s never happened to you.”